The Ghosts of Christmas Do Not Exist
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock's visited by an past acquaintance, a present one, and one from the future. Maybe it wouldn't be so strange... if all those acquaintances weren't already dead. [Sherlock/A Christmas Carol fandom fusion. No knowledge required of the book! Set immediately post S3, rated T for mostly later chapters.]
1. Chapter 1

**The Ghosts of Christmas Do Not Exist**

* * *

**A/N: Tiny bit of heavily implied past slash. Nothing written out, just implied or innuendo. Tiny bit of otherwise heterosexual innuendo as well. Applicable to this chapter, rated T.**

Sherlock awoke with a start, adrenalin prompting him into making a grab for the gun he kept in the nightstand.

He had grown used to living with someone - John - and then he had had to cope with resettling back into a life that was, well, more or less, lonely. Maybe it wasn't really the right word, lonely, but it was definitely a lot more quiet than he had been used to. During his two years mostly abroad, it hadn't been a big deal because he was always on the move, but returning to Baker Street without the familiar press of companionship echoing in the halls was weird.

But now, he had definitely heard movement in the flat, movement that ought not to be there since he lived alone again, and movement that should definitely not have been in the flat at three o' clock in the morning. With the looming threat of Moriarty being alive settled permanently in the back of his brain, his fingers curled around the cold bite of the gun in the chill of the flat to press off the safety.

He kicked the blankets away lithely, swinging his legs out of bed. Mindful of the creaky floorboard just to the left of his instinctual place to put his right foot, he silently got to his feet with the gun held aloft.

"Hey, Will."

Sherlock spun on his heel to the voice behind him. He recognised three things at once in that instant: one, there hadn't been anyone behind him for the fact that he'd done an instinctual sweep of the room upon waking, two, he knew the voice that was talking to him from the other side of the room, and three, that this whole escapade was a dream, because the voice talking to him from the other side of the room was a voice from the past.

It didn't stop the shiver that travelled down his spine as he stared across the room into the face of an old friend. "... Victor," he said softly, lowering the gun.

He was exactly as he remembered him, twenty-one years old, the man that Sherlock had known back in university. Brown hair in a disarray, warm brown eyes and tanned skin, with the smile that almost made Sherlock's heart ache in a whim of fancy.

Victor had been murdered seventeen years ago.

Sherlock blew out a deep breath, throwing the gun aside. "Clearly this is a dream, then."

Victor leaned against the dresser. "Does that matter?"

Sherlock pushed his fingers back through his hair, padding the few feet back to his bed. "No, I suppose not." He sat down on the mattress, crossing his legs beneath him to prop his elbows on his knees. "It's been a very long time, even within the realms of the unconscious."

"Do you have dreams of me often, then?" Victor smiled, a smile Sherlock remembered as one that stated _it's just us, we're the only ones in on this secret_.

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Probably not ones you'd want to hear about."

Victor sighed, pushing away from the dresser. "Oh, probably not. But that's not why I'm here."

Sherlock rest his head on his hand. "No? This is a social visit? Interesting. What can I help you with, Victor?"

"I'm here to take you back, Will."

Sherlock frowned. "Take me back? Oh," he added, as Victor sat down on the bed next to him. "It's going to be _that_ kind of dream."

Victor laughed - and Sherlock definitely remembered _that_ sound vividly, just as everything else - and shook his head. "Don't get excited. _No_, Will," he continued, as Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I'm here to take you _back_. Into the past."

Sherlock frowned. "The past? Our past?"

"Part of that past. Come on." Victor stood up, offering his hand.

"... Alright, then. Entertain me, as usual," Sherlock replied, taking Victor's hand. He wasn't even on his feet before the world spun around him. He blinked away the sudden bout of vertigo and when he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the steps of a school building he knew too well, and also a place that he never wanted to see again.

"... This is not _our_ past," he said dryly, dropping his hand away from Victor's. This is before you even knew me."

Victor nodded, folding his hands behind his back. "Yes. Year Six, I believe? There you are, though, you look exactly the same. Your hair's a bit darker now."

Sherlock grunted noncommentally, watching a group of boys down the stairs. He recognised the scene. Himself, at eleven years old, in the midst of a row with five other boys.

"Why did you bring me back to prep school?" Sherlock asked, looking up at Victor again. He didn't bother to get to his feet. Clearly they weren't going anywhere except memory lane, so it was called, and it was one place that he didn't care to traverse.

"Shhh."

Sherlock pursed his lips and flicked his gaze back to the ruckus on the walkway.

"Give it back!" young Sherlock demanded, clutching at the wrong end of the hideous school-issued bag.

"Give us the answers for the next test Teacher has planned and we will," boasted one of the older students, fifteen, some boy that he had never bothered to remember.

"I don't _know_ them," his younger self protested.

"Yes, you do." The fifteen year old pulled on the bag.

His younger self pulled back determinedly, clinging onto the bag tenuously. "Not like I know your Mum caught you with that old blonde girl that you've been having sex with!" he retorted.

"Not the best retort, that," Sherlock commented, tilting his head.

Victor chuckled. "Impressive deduction for an eleven year old."

"I knew the girl, she was stupid, she freaked when she realised she could go to jail for having sex under age," Sherlock replied, and then winced when the fifteen year old decked his eleven year old self. "Ouch," he and Victor echoed at the same time.

"_Freak_!" the fifteen year old hissed.

"_Me_?" eleven year old Sherlock retorted, grabbing his bag. "I didn't screw her-" He ducked another blow and retaliated by throwing one of the heavy textbooks at the tormenter.

"William Holmes!"

"Oh, I hated that name," Sherlock muttered. "I hated 'William'."

"I don't know," Victor said conversationally, although his eyes were narrowed. "I think it suits you."

"That's only because you were the only one who ever called me that to begin with, besides professors and my parents."

In the memory, one of the prefects was marching across the lawn. "William Holmes, get inside _now_! You'll receive six of the best for fighting again, how many times must we have this conversation?!"

"I was never well liked," Sherlock commented to Victor.

"Clearly."

Victor reached down to grip Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock was about to question what he was doing when the scene changed again. This time, it was a dim room lit only by the flicker of flame, the smell of vanilla and lavender so thick in the air that it was enough to choke him. And he recognised it again, of course he did, but this time, it was less irritating and more embarrassing.

"_Victor_," he complained, left standing side-by-side with his immortal apparation, "_why_ did you bring me back to the night I lost my virginity?"

"It made you into who you are today," Victor said. "And it was with a _girl_," he continued, clapping Sherlock on the back.

"You knew about her, and this is voyeurism," Sherlock retorted, although he cringed as he felt his cheeks blaze in the overly humid room.

"How old were you here?"

Sherlock huffed and turned his head. "Seventeen."

Victor laughed - he was laughing _at_ him, Sherlock realised with a start- before falling into silence.

The girl he'd lost his virginity to - Clarissa, he still remembered _her_ name even if he wished he didn't - had been nineteen and from out of town. Sherlock had been a tiny bit high at the time, and a little suggestible. He could still cringe over the fact that they'd had sex by fire light. At least it had been by candle, honestly what had he been thinking?

"That... was _fantastic_," Clarissa gasped, pulling the blankets up over arms. "Are you _sure_ you were a virgin?"

"Quite," teen Sherlock replied, flicking the condom into the bin.

"Well, don't sound so excited," Clarissa replied, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

His teenage self leaned away, sitting up. "I'm not."

"What?"

"I don't know, for having slept with so many men, you'd think you'd be better."

Victor snickered. Sherlock ignored him.

"_What?"_ Clarissa repeated.

"It was boring, there weren't _fireworks_, as they say, you're too fucking loud and, as I said, having had engaged in coitus with so many other participants, you'd think you'd be better versed in pleasing rather than just being pleased." He reached for his pants and looked around for his trousers.

"Are you kidding me right now? What the hell gives you the right-"

"No wonder you don't have a boyfriend," teenage Sherlock muttered. "Or friends at all, for that matter, you're a horrible judge of character as well as a horrible shag."

When the stiletto shoe went sailing over his younger self's head and towards Sherlock in the memory, he ducked reflexively and straightened up to find himself in yet a different place. "Oh. That's finally over."

Victor smiled. "Although I don't truly understand why you went from bisexual to asexual."

Sherlock blew out a breath. "Nonsexual, mostly. And it was easier. Clarissa was a nightmare and you got murdered. It was easier to just not care."

"About all types of companionship?" Victor turned a knowing, sad sort of gaze on him. It was like he was searching for something, and Sherlock didn't like being searched.

"Apparently." He looked around. "Where are we now? I don't recognise this place. It looks like the 1800's."

"That's because it is."

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"Well, more or less." Victor shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Then this can't be my past," Sherlock replied.

"It's what your past could have been," Victor explained. "Had you been born a century before you were. This is a different version of your past."

"Interesting..." Sherlock cast his gaze around. "Where- oh."

He pulled up short as he caught sight of himself striding across the cobblestone street. He looked familiar to his own self now, except his hair was slicked back, hidden beneath a charcoal version of a deerstalker and-

"What _am _I wearing," he intoned, narrowing his eyes.

"A cape coat," Victor said pleasantly. "A travelling coat, if you will. And the ever present deerstalker; they hailed from this age, you know."

"Yes..." Sherlock made a face. "No."

His Victorianesque self strode away beneath the arch of a stone walkway, vanishing into the shadows. Dogging his path was a familiar face.

"John."

"Holmes, I say, wait up!" Victorian John called. He was familiar, too, asides from maybe a few more wrinkles. The moustache was back, which Sherlock made a disgruntled noise at in the back of his throat, and he was dressed in traditional to the time wear, down to the pocket watch he was tucking back into his pocket.

"Hurry, my dear Watson! You'll miss the main event!"

"'My dear Watson'," Sherlock echoed. "He would knock me for a loop if I called him that in our time."

"Different times, different mannerisms."

"Yes."

"John!" a voice called, and was that-

"Is that Mary?" he mused.

And second later, he was proven right; Mary came running around the corner, holding onto her hat, the frills on her shirt waving in the wind. "John! I don't think this is a good idea!"

"Mary's here, too?" Sherlock smiled slightly. "So, John was still married even in a different version of my past. To the same woman, even." Something about that was reassuring, especially after the debacle that had put the modern marriage to the test. He would have made a note to tell all of this to John, if it hadn't just only been a dream.

"What's the case?" he asked, leaning over to Victor.

"Jack the Ripper," Victor replied.

"Oh! Nice." He started forward. "Let's go see how this me's deductions are."

"Will."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. "Hm?"

Victor smiled at him sadly. "It's time for me to go."

Sherlock frowned, backtracking slightly. "Why? I'm usually more conscious of the fact that I'm waking up if I'm waking up. Besides, each separate memory should count towards a different dream rather than it as a whole, so we're not anywhere near the allotted time for this particular altered reality-"

"It's time."

Sherlock closed his mouth. "Fine. Right. Well." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'll see you again, then, I'd reckon. In my dreams, obviously, as cliché as that sounds." He met his gaze and tilted his head. "Perhaps in better circumstances."

"I miss you, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, turning away. "Of course."

"Bye, Will." Victor surprised him by pulling him into an overly familiar hug. "The next one'll be here any second."

Sherlock felt his eyebrows knit together. "Next what?"

But he received no response asides from the bells of Big Ben tolling in the distance. The warmth and pressure of Victor's hug left him cold and emtpy, standing alone in a world he didn't recognise as it filtered out around him.

"Victor?"

He shook his head against the ringing in his ears and blinked hard. When he opened his eyes this time, he was back in his bedroom, surrounded by the darkness and silence of his own flat. He blew out a breath and flung his arm over his eyes. What a strange dream, with so many faces from the past. Even Victor...

Sherlock rolled over and groped for his blankets to go back to sleep.

"... Hello, Sherlock."

His eyes flew open again at the soft voice that broke the silence. He knew that voice, too. Not from a past like Victor's had been, but from the present, or the recent present. He knew her voice. It wasn't one he was likely to forget.

"... You," he breathed, moving his arm aside again.

She smiled in response.

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**There's rumours going around that perhaps the Christmas episode is going to be a version of _A Christmas Carol_. Now, I would love this and, naturally, I had to get my two cents into this, and write my own version. This will be in four parts... I had intended five, like the original, but I bounced into Victor without thinking, so it'll be four. Three different 'ghosts'. Lots of different possibilities. Some possible, some alternate, like the 1800s, it'll be a smorgasbord of Sherlock and Dickens fandom fusion.**

**I do not own _Sherlock. _I do not own _A Christmas Carol_.  
Stay tuned! Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock moved his arm aside, staring into the face of Irene Adler. She was naked, as per the usual, with her blood red lipstick stained lips curved into a smile.

He sighed in resignation. "What are you doing here?" he asked, rolling to his feet again. Clearly, he hadn't woken up at all, this was just all part of the dream. He had to admit, even for him, it was a strange dream.

"I'm your next ghost," she said cheerfully, stepping forward.

"Ghost? You're not dead." Sherlock hooked his dressing gown off the floor, offering it out to Irene.

"Oh, everyone thinks I am. I go by a different name now, you understand." Irene took the dressing gown and slipped it on. "You unwittingly played right into your brother's hand in letting him believe that I was murdered by that terror cell. It's all so rather pedestrian, but I suppose it's a must."

"Yes..." Sherlock shook his head sharply. "Now, explain what this is all about."

Irene glanced up from fixing the collar. "Pardon?"

"First Victor, now you. What's with the ghosts and the strange dreams, clearly they're all interconnected, although I don't know why."

"Oh," Irene said, her eyes sparkling with humour. "The great Mr Holmes doesn't know something."

He shrugged. "They're dreams. I don't put stock in dreams. Or palm reading or tarot cards or horoscopes." He rolled his eyes. "But I'm sure you and all of my 'ghosts'," he curled his fingers into air quotes, "think you have a reason, so explain."

"Oh, that's more the third ghost's job," Irene replied absently. "I mustn't step on toes."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. Stepping on toes is part of _your _job," Sherlock retorted.

Irene smiled sweetly. "Oh, so you remember."

"Evidently." Sherlock turned away. "Who is my third ghost?"

"That would ruin the surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"You may like this one."

"I'm almost positive I won't."

"You won't know until you try."

Sherlock blew out a short breath through his nose. "Okay, new question." He spun back around. "Why three ghosts?"

Irene raised her eyebrows.

Was that a ridiculous question? Sherlock took a metaphorical step back and tried to think, but he came up empty handed. "What?"

"Really?"

"I don't understand," Sherlock grumbled. He loathed the words, especially to the mind of a woman the likes of one Irene Adler.

Irene laughed softly, running her fingers up his arm. His eyes followed the movement almost unconsciously. "Charles Dickens."

Sherlock blinked a few times. "... Author."

"Yes. _A Christmas Carol_?"

Sherlock shook his head. Irene was tracing idle patterns on his bicep now.

"Oh, Sherlock. Crabby old man, visited by three ghosts to see his past, present, and future Christmases, led to a change of heart to change his destiny," Irene explained. "Very popular story. Very high critical acclaim."

"Ah..." Sherlock shrugged slightly. "Not really my area."

Irene looked up at him. "Really? I pegged you as a reader when you were younger."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "But..." Now she was tracing his exposed collarbone, where his shirt had dipped away from his shoulder and. "_Gulliver's Travels_... and... _Frankenstein_ and... such."

Irene smiled coyly. "Yes, well." She stepped away and crossed the room. "Not the most captivating topic, this. Let's move on before on the bells."

Sherlock shook his head slightly. Focus. "Very well, given that you've not giving me any other answers. Where to- oh, _do _give me a warning next time. I'm going to get whiplash."

The scenery around him had changed again, but it was pleasant as it was familiar this time. If the morgue was his home away from home, then his home away from home away from home was John's home.

He slipped into a smile without conscious thought, watching Mary watch John as his friend struggled with assembling a changing table. He was glad that they were back on good terms. He liked Mary, despite everything that happened. He didn't exactly have a _brand_, when it came to women, but if he did, he suspected that Mary would be close. Trained killer and all.

"This is the present," Sherlock confirmed, roving his eyes over Mary's very pregnant stomach and John's blatant irritation at the table not cooperating.

"Yes."

"_John_, why don't you read the instructions?" Mary laughed, folding her hands over her stomach.

"I've read them three bloody times," John retorted. "I _know_ this has to- a_ha_!" He secured one of the pieces and hit it with the heel of his hand. "I told you I could do it."

Mary laughed quietly. "It looks great, John."

"Mm. I should have had this done ages ago," John muttered.

"No." Mary held out her hands. "No."

John smiled slightly, curling his fingers around hers. "Yeah, but..."

"We're doing it now." Mary leaned over, pecking her lips against his. "In the meantime!" She pulled away, glancing towards the closet. "I'm sorry, but we are not going with a detective themed room like Sherlock suggested."

John laughed and shook his head. "No. He said he's going to get her a little deerstalker. One for newborns? I'm not supposed to tell you that, though."

"He's incorrigible. He told me that he wanted to get her a toy microscope when she's old enough because that's the first toy he ever had," Mary said. "And he wants to teach her the elements and famous serial killers."

"That's not a bad idea, why would you think that's a stupid idea?" Sherlock asked out loud, although, as before, he went unnoticed in the dream.

"Yeah, he's a little excited. I'll reign him in," John replied, going back to the changing table. "I'm surprised, actually."

"Is surprised the word?"

John sighed. "Worried, maybe. I don't know. I don't try to think of it that way, though."

"He was excited for the wedding-"

"- and then he shot up, whether it was for a case or not. I know," John interrupted. "But I want to think he's just excited for the baby, I mean, he _really_ isn't rubbish with kids. He's good with them, actually. I think the young ones make him nervous, but I've seen him interact with them at a primary school one time and he was surprisingly... well, he'd kill me for saying, but paternal, really."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He could remember that case. The kids had been witness to a murder. He'd hated that case specifically for that reason. It was hard to interrogate kids, and it was bad enough to even need to in the first place. Kids weren't meant to have to experience the dark parts of life at that age. Did that make him... paternal?

"Your biological clock is ticking, Sherlock." Irene spoke, startling Sherlock into remembering that this was _really_ a dream and not something he was witnessing in real life.

He turned away. "Rubbish. Let's get on to the next hallucination."

"If you insist," Irene replied with a sigh.

White flakes filtered down around him, drawing his attention first to them and then the whiteness as it converged around him. Not the transition, but the landscape; London was coated with a half inch of fluffy white snow. The stark white building in front of him nearly folded into the landscape itself. Sherlock knew who this vision would involve; only one person he knew frequented the Diogenes Club.

He gave Irene a sceptical look.

"Like Victor said, he is another part of who made you who you are today," Irene replied simply. "My opinions, nor yours, matter in that regard. The sooner we visit this place, the quicker we can move on."

Sherlock sighed. "Very well." He strode forward and reached for the door handle. His hand went right through it. A cold shock went through his body, quickly replaced by the impending thought that _he could walk through walls_. Of course he could. This was a dream, and he was being escorted through memories, past, present, and presumably future to come by ghosts. It made sense that he could walk through walls.

Still, he tried to ignore how Irene laughed when he uttered _"Cool"_ under his breath and strode through the doorways until he got to Mycroft's office.

"Have you heard from your brother lately?" was conveniently the first thing he heard when he stepped into Mycroft's office. It was Anthea speaking, as she handed over a manila file to Mycroft. (Sherlock still didn't know her true name, Mycroft's assistant. Every time that he had bothered to remember it, it had changed. He was horrible with names, even if he never failed to remember a face. Most people he just gave names in his head. Half of the Yard were collectively either named 'Stupid', 'Intolerant', or pure and plain 'Useless Officer of the Law'.)

"No," Mycroft replied without looking up. "I've seen from his statements that he's been spending far too much time with the Watson family in the infant department and that he took a trip to Liechtenstein last month, for whatever reason."

"Should we upgrade his status?"

"No. Whatever my brother is up to is, to some regard, important. With James Moriarty circling London, I find it best in these times to leave Sherlock have control over his whims." He glanced up. "Relatively, of course." Mycroft looked back at the files. "He's far too excited over the latest developments with the Moriarty case to do something rash, and he knows that he has boundaries to follow now, lest he be shipped off to Europe for the rest of his natural life."

Sherlock snorted at that little piece of information. Did Mycroft expect him to think that the looming threat of permanent exile was going to keep him on a short leash? He had every plan to do what needed to be done to stop Moriarty; but Mycroft _was_ right, in such a sense, when he said that Sherlock knew better than to do certain rash things at this time. Handling Magnussen was different than handling Moriarty.

"Very well." Anthea paused in filing through documents. "Are we _quite_ sure that Mr Holmes will be able to track down Mr Moriarty?"

Sherlock's proverbial hackles went up, but Mycroft's almost long-suffering sigh interrupted off any form of complaint that he would have spoken.

"I have full confidence in my brother's abilities, Anthea, as well do you, as well does the entirety of London," Mycroft said. He sounded tired.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly.

"I also have full confidence in James Moriarty's abilities to match my brother head-on. It's not a matter of _when _Sherlock will end Moriarty, it will happen, but more a matter of if they will take one another as they fall again. There is no clear victor in this battle of wits, just a matter of what will happen when it reaches its climax."

"You're worried about him," Anthea replied, sliding the drawer closed and picking another file without looking.

"Naturally. He's Sherlock Holmes. He's my brother. It yet remains my place to worry over him as much as it is to clean up his daily messes." Mycroft returned to his paperwork as the world faded out around Sherlock and Irene, leaving them surrounded in smoky gray darkness.

Sherlock stared into the whisps of smoke-like substance floating by. There was something unsettling about that conversation. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Brotherly compassion," Irene commented softly. Her voice again startled Sherlock out of his muddled reverie; he shook his head violently to chase the thought away.

"So it would seem. Next?" He looked at her expectantly. "Following the pattern, if there is a pattern, the next place we visit should be an altered state of my present life."

Irene's smile was nearly salacious. "Still the new sexy."

Beyond her was a church. Going by the flowers, the dresses, and the organ music, it was a wedding. Sherlock could tell that much, but it wasn't one that he recognised, it wasn't one that he'd planned. Or maybe, 'not in reality' was the key clause in it.

"Who's the bride?" he asked Irene distractedly, spinning around to look for familiar faces, but he and Irene were alone in the small, back room.

"You'll see. Ah, there she is now."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder as the door opened, going stiff as Molly walked into the room. She was wearing a wedding gown, the traditional sort of poofy gown that seemed to feature in most weddings, with lace details and intricate beading. The train dragged along behind her, glossed black shoes taking care not to step on it as whoever followed her in.

When Sherlock looked up, he was looking back at a mirror version of himself; same age, same hair, same tuxedo he had worn to John's wedding last year.

"... I didn't get married to her," he said quietly, although his voice came out thin. It bothered him that he didn't know why, or why the sudden and irrational panic, or the tightening in his chest.

"No," Irene agreed. "But she is a _gorgeous _bride."

Sherlock blew out a breath, his heart thudding in his ears. "Yes," he said, swallowing. "She is." He glossed his eyes over the loose waves in Molly's hair, the flowers peppering their silky strands, the bodice of the gown, the blush on her cheeks. He swallowed again, and looked away. "She got married to Tom, then."

"In this world," Irene said. "Best of all, you were her matron of honour."

"_What_?"

"Oh, Sherlock, this is beautiful, I'm so grateful, I couldn't have done it without you," Molly said, addressing the other Sherlock.

"No, you couldn't have," other Sherlock said effortlessly, but he thought his smile was more resigned than genuinely happy. "But I didn't mind too much," he continued, glancing around before looking back at her. "I owed you. For everything you did."

"You really didn't..."

"I will never stop owing you, Molly."

Sherlock watched as his mirrored self leaned over to not kiss Molly on the cheek like he had before, but on the top of the head. He lingered a second too long, but then pulled away and brought his hands together.

"Right then! We need the veil. The music will start to play in approximately fifty-seven seconds!" other Sherlock said cheerfully, and spun Molly around to the mirror.

Sherlock met his own gaze in the reflection, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, he was back in his own bedroom.

"Well," Irene started. "That was certainly enlightening. The softer side of Sherlock Holmes," she mused. "Should I be touched? Or disappointed that you never treated me that way?" she asked innocently.

Sherlock couldn't stop the glare, but he turned away to the window to keep his attention elsewhere. He felt strange. He knew the feeling, obviously: it was emotion. Knowing that didn't stop it from feeling strange.

"Humanity is what keeps us rooted in this world, Sherlock."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he retorted, turning back around.

Irene was gone.

He blew out another deep breath, forcing himself to close his eyes and count to ten. He walked back over to the bed and sat down. The clock was one minute from turning over, less, in fact, given Irene's disappearance. The bells would chime soon and with them would come a presumed glimpse into his future.

He pondered briefly on his guide, and what the whole point of this was, and how he would very much just like to wake up and enjoy a cup of hot tea with some sleeping medication. Dreamless sleep sounded good. But. Until then.

Sherlock opened his eyes as the bells began to chime.


	3. Chapter 3

**Rating warning: still within a T, but technically more a T+. Given the nature of the third 'ghost', you'll understand why. Nothing too graphic, but be prepared nonetheless.**

* * *

"Long time no see, Sherlock."

Part of Sherlock wanted to exclaim that perhaps it was Christmas indeed, even though none of his dreams, despite the Dickens premise, seemed to be about Christmas.

Part of him wanted to grab his gun, even though his rational mind told him that it would make no difference in this world.

Instead, he simply smiled. "Hello, Jim."

And it was in his instincts that he couldn't help the thrill that shot through his veins at that name, at those eyes, at that smile. _This_ was his case. _This_ was his living. James Moriarty was always the number one mystery to solve; he had thought he had beaten him, and somehow, he hadn't. The most interesting - and frustrating - thing was the elusive fact, and Sherlock had spent countless hours trying to figure out, perhaps like so many had before about himself, how the man had faked his death.

"I know _you're_ not dead," he continued, rising to his feet. "Not so much a ghost."

"Why follow the pattern and be ordinary?" Jim drawled, sidling up to him. "I'm not a ghost, Sherlock. No. I am the demon lurking in your future."

Sherlock analysed his gaze thoughtfully. Same look, same ice cold, lifeless vacant look that somehow was still dangerous, still taunting, still playful. It was the same, old James Moriarty. A dream, but very much alive nonetheless, lurking somewhere, like he had said, in the future.

"That's as cliché as it is exciting," Sherlock said conversationally. "Come to take me into my future, then?"

"Your personal tour guide for a trip down Memories Yet to Come. It's delicious, Sherlock, really. The things I've seen in your yet-to-be's..." he trailed off. "Mm."

"Well, no time like the present." Sherlock paused. "Or should I say future, so I don't hurt your feelings?" he asked sarcastically.

"Your concern is touching, Sherlock, really it is. But you shouldn't worry about my feelings. Only yours."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Well. I'll defer to my own judgment until proven other-" He broke off as his bedroom door burst open, light flooding in from the hall. There were the sound of footsteps and two children ran into the bedroom. One girl and one boy, roughly seven and five. They careened right through Sherlock and jumped onto the bed.

"Uncle Sherlock, Uncle Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned around.

Another mirrored version of himself was in bed, although he appeared... again, roughly seven years older, going by the additional - albeit only _slightly_ noticeable - wrinkles. His mirrored self was being rudely awoken by the children.

"Sorry, Sherlock, they're all excited for your birthday," John's voice said, appearing in the room a moment later, followed by Mary. "They don't even get this excited for _my_ birthday. Why is it you guys are more excited for your godfather's birthday?!" he demanded teasingly, crossing his arms.

"Because Celeste and William know who spoils them more," mirror Sherlock mumbled, smiling tiredly as he accepted hugs from both of the children.

"You've got godchildren in this one, Sherlock!" Jim chimed in. "Isn't it such a sweet picture of familial innocence? Aww. Look at that smile on your face. Those kids are just too cute."

Sherlock studiously kept his own face blank. His mind was whirling. Godchildren? God_children_? John and Mary had had _two_ kids? And they'd even named one after him, even though real John would never do that nor would he actually probably _let_ him. And... birthdays? Something he hadn't celebrated in ages, it felt like, after his own faked suicide.

His mind flickered back to Irene's vision, of John saying how excited Sherlock had been for the baby. This version of himself looked so _happy_.

"This is just too sappy and sentimental, don't you agree?" Jim gripped his shoulder. "Let's move on."

Jim's hand pressed down on his shoulder painfully. Sherlock choked on the breath he was taking as white hot agony shot through his body. His legs collapsed from under him; he hit his knees and struggled to breathe, all the while Jim holding him down. When he looked up again, he was staring into a gleaming tombstone.

Mary Watson

September 18, 1973 - January 15, 2015

His mind scrabbled to keep up with the happy dream to the sudden pain and the reappearance into a dark and desolate world; a cemetery, surrounded by gnarled trees and London fog, with a tombstone and the familiar name etched into it front of him.

"Mary...?" he gasped. Tears stung his eyes, although he didn't know what exactly what the initiator was, the pain or the loss.

"This is a better future," Jim said cheerfully. "Being dead is amazing, Sherlock. And this woman... tsk. Good thing _she's_ away from John here. Oh, look over there."

Sherlock winced as Jim took hold of his hair, jerking his attention to the right.

Celeste Watson

January 15, 2015 - January 18, 2015

"Poor little Celeste, no seven year old wake up calls here." Jim ruffled his hair and released him.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. "_What_?" His voice came out unnaturally thin, choked for a grasp on the reality placed in front of him. He hadn't _known_ Celeste, how could he possibly _grieve_ her-

"Mrs Lies a Lot was shot. They performed emergency surgery to save John and her's poor girl, but." Jim clicked his tongue. "Celeste only survived for three days in the NICU. You were very, very broken up about it. John? He was shattered."

"... No." He wasn't aware that he had said it out loud until Jim responded.

"Yes. Let's go."

"Wait a-"

But the scene dissolved nonetheless. Sherlock was infinitely glad to see it go, but that didn't change the fact that he hadn't had time to process.

"I shouldn't brag about my own accomplishments, but I particularly enjoy _this_ future," Jim commented.

Sherlock nearly fell over when the world settled; he reached out a hand to steady himself and his hand landed in a pool of blood. He was nearly loathe to look up.

It was his own body, blood travelling in thick, winding rivers across the pavement. This was real, this wasn't a faked death. This was John over him, repeating his name over and over.

There was a note nearby. It was too eerily similar. Sherlock squinted to read it.

Many happy returns.  
x JM

"A future in which... you won," Sherlock ground out, pushing himself back to his knees, and then unsteadily to his feet. "... I _know_ this one is fake."

Jim stared back at him with widened eyes. "Oh, no, Sherlock. Don't be so quick to judge. None of these futures are for certain. _All_ of these futures could happen. _Any_ of them could happen."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, blinking sweat away from his eyelashes. "I thought-"

"That two of the dreams were real, and the other wasn't? I _told_ you, Sherlock. I wouldn't be so _ordinary_."

"So then-"

"Oh, yes. They could _happen_."

_No, no, no_. Control, get a hold of yourself, Holmes! He shook his head violently, his murder scene blurring out before his eyes. "Futures can-"

A gunshot echoed through the air, making him flinch. The vision only came after the noise; Sherlock watched John stagger and fall as though in slow motion.

"John!"

He knew it was pointless to react; it was a dream, but it was instinct.

"Johnny boy," Jim echoed, watching critically. "He always was your weakness. You were always incredibly transparent when it involved him."

"Go back," Sherlock interrupted. "Go back. We started off so well."

"Maybe all of your futures are bleak."

"I don't believe that," Sherlock retaliated. "You're just choosing what to show me. You're just a part of my mind. You're just in my _head_. Show me what _I_ want to see," he demanded, studiously ignoring the scene of John dying around him. "_My_ choice."

Jim twitched his hand. "Dull. How many times do I have to tell you? You don't have to fear death, Sherlock."

"_Now_," Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, fine." Jim pouted. "You've gotten so _soft_." He snapped his fingers.

Sherlock's frantic pleading faded out in the background into the buzz of white noise, and then just a buzz, and then - were those bees?

"Meet Sherlock Holmes, retired."

Sherlock critically eyed the scene. This time, he was in his mid-sixties and surrounded by a multitude of beehives. "I retired to become a beekeeper." He didn't say that it seemed possible, apprehensive to give in to any whim of Jim's visions.

"Yes, moved to the country with Johnny boy. He's currently in the cottage, eating biscuits and scones and writing a book."

Writing a book... but wait, no mention of Mary. Maybe he hadn't gotten married in this future. There was no reason to take one version into the other. But...

He was getting so _confused_.

"Why would you choose to become so dull?" Moriarty trilled. "I don't like this future, either, let's move o- oh, crumbs."

Sherlock looked around. They were back in his bedroom.

"I was just starting to have fun!" Jim protested.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Oh, yes, barrels." He turned away. "I meant to ask, something Irene said. What exactly is the _point_ here?" He turned to his window, staring out it without really seeing out it. There was nothing outside except darkness, anyway. Part of the dream or something of Jim's doing, he wasn't sure. "Apparently the book was about Christmas. These dreams aren't about Christmas and I don't need to have a change of heart."

"Oooh. You haven't _figured it out_ yet." Jim's tone was all the mocking that it had ever been, but it seemed more lethal, more venomous than Sherlock had ever heard it.

He decided that silence was the best option. He doubted that it was important. He doubted that any of this was important. But this batch of dreams had ventured into nightmare territory, and he couldn't help shaking the feeling - one he hoped would go away with waking - of... _what if that _is _my future?_

"Oh, Sherlock, I've missed you, but do try to be more on your game when you and I meet face to face."

Sherlock stared out the window studiously.

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Those aren't lies," Jim said cheerfully. "Those are real. They can be real. They can be in your books. They might be right now, in fact, and - " A beat of silence. "You will never know which one will come to pass until too late." Moriarty gave a little laugh. "To be fair, though, most of them are death and darkness, so you have _something_ to look forward to. With me back, I _own_ your future, Sherlock."

Sherlock ground his teeth. "... The future is not set in stone," he said, as steadily as he could. He knew fighting his own dream was pointless, but he couldn't stop himself. He had never been good at stopping himself.

"Oh?"

"I don't believe in _destiny_." Sherlock met Moriarty's gaze in the reflection of the window. "I don't believe in a predestined path."

"You don't believe in Fate?" Moriarty asked. His voice was pure ice, and sickly sweet at the same time. "You met adorable little John Watson, and you don't believe in Fate?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Not as such." He turned around, folding his hands behind his back. "Miracles, maybe. Fate? No. We _will_ meet again, Jim. But my future will be very different from what you boast in these dreams. I have my own future," he said, crossing the room slowly. "Let me see. You dead, _truly _dead, me, still solving cases for the Yard. John and Mary, with as many children as they please, although hopefully just one or two. And... I'd say world peace, but..." He stopped in front of Jim, raising his eyebrows. "Strikes me as a little textbook."

Moriarty scoffed. "World peace would be boring."

"It would," Sherlock agreed. "But." He raised his hands in a _what can you do?_ motion. "I think it's time for you to leave."

Jim smiled. Smirked, more like. "For now. Until next time, Sherlock."

When the bells rang through London again, so did the chill through his veins. Moriarty had vanished, but the cold fear prickling the back of Sherlock's neck wasn't a figment of his imagination. A façade was pointless when it was only himself, but he was loathe to admit to even himself how ragged these nightmares made him feel. Like pouring salt into an open wound.

When he woke up this time, his heart was pounding and he was drenched in a cold sweat.

He knew he was back to reality, though, because he wasn't waking up in bed. He was on the sofa, where he now remembered that he had fallen asleep. It was only dusk outside - he hadn't _meant_ to fall asleep - but he had cuddled down with the blankets on the sofa to watch telly and had apparently fallen asleep.

He fought the blankets away impatiently, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He felt cold and clammy and not well rested. He wanted to take some sleeping medication and go to bed and _not_ dream, but... something stopped him.

Twenty minutes later, he'd taken a shower, changed into different clothes, and was out the door.

He told the cabbie John and Mary's address.

He told himself he wasn't going to see them because of the dreams. He told himself it wasn't because he was being sentimental.

* * *

**Jim's futures are so dark and demented. He's a twisted individual ^^ One more chapter and this strange version of the Christmas carol is over. Don't worry; we're staying entirely in the present this time. Literally.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock shifted his weight, shivering in the winter chill. "Hey," he mumbled, smiling faintly at John once he had opened the door.

"What are you doing here?" John asked. "I thought you were having a night-in. Your crime show is on tonight, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "Uh, yeah, I..." He flipped through various statements in his mind, knowing that making up an excuse for missing his crime show wasn't going to fly with John. (He'd forgotten about the show, actually, after everything.) "I'm not really feeling well," he setted on. It was sure-fire; John would immediately go off on a round of unending questions as the worrier in him reared its head, but, just this once, Sherlock found that he didn't mind. "I wondered if I might stay the night," he continued, ducking his head.

John wouldn't turn him down.

"Yeah, of course. Come in," John replied immediately, the crease appearing between his eyebrows. "What's wrong? What are you feeling?"

Sherlock shook his head, glancing down at John's hand on his arm his friend guided him inside. "I'm not sure. Maybe just tired. I could probably just do with tea and sleep, but..."

"Let me be the judge of that," John said firmly, closing the door. "I'll put the kettle on, but let me check you over in a minute, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded mutely. It wasn't a lie, really. He didn't feel well. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and he _did_ just want tea and a kip, but something had propelled him here. He was fairly certain that it was sentiment, and it made his throat tight to think about.

"Sherlock?" Mary glanced up from the TV. "John didn't say you'd be by, I would have saved dinner out."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I'm not hungry." His eyes lingered over her for perhaps a fraction too long; he saw her eyebrows knit together in the same, concerned way that John's did. But, it was unconscious staring. He couldn't imagine their life without Mary, and the impending baby, not now. The image of the tombstones bearing their names were still fresh in his mind.

"He's staying the night," John announced, coming up behind him. "You can go back to the bedroom and change out, if you want. I can bring you your tea."

"Thanks," Sherlock muttered, pulling on his scarf. He wasn't in the mood to socialise, not really. Which begged the question _why did you bother coming here?_. He supposed he just... had to rationalise certain things. He was here now. He didn't want to talk, but he didn't want to leave, either.

"Is he all right?" he heard Mary say, and he smiled wearily to himself as he let himself into the guest room.

He shrugged his coat off and sorted through the drawers for the old t-shirt and pyjama pants. Ever since he and John had gotten back on good terms, he'd had his own 'drawer' at John and Mary's home, which tickled both him and Mary when brought up in casual conversation. John never thought the implication was funny; in fact, he always threatened to throw Sherlock's things out the window if he kept bringing it up, but Sherlock knew he never would. So, it remained simple to change and crawl into the free bed, collapsing into the pillows that smelled the same way that John's clothes and pillows and blankets always had at Baker Street. (Same detergent for laundry. Easy to replicate, but somehow never the same.)

He rolled over and curled up under the blankets, focussing on his own breathing until he heard John open the door.

"Tea," John said softly, flicking on the light next to the bed.

Sherlock turned over again. "Thanks." He didn't bother to try to look put out for his excuse of not feeling well. He already was excelling, he was sure. He sat up for the tea, blowing on the surface gently and then taking a sip. He didn't lean away when John passed his hand against his forehead. Instead, he almost nearly leaned into the touch, stopping himself only at the last second.

"So, what's wrong?" John asked quietly. "You don't have a fever, but you're not up to your usual."

"Just tired." Again, he wasn't technically lying.

John sat down on the edge of the bed. "You can sleep at your own flat, meaning you had some reason for coming to see me."

Sherlock almost smiled. "It would seem that way, wouldn't it?" He shook his head slightly. "Just... drained, really. Needed to get away."

"Okay..." John didn't seem to buy it, but Sherlock also knew that John knew that he occasionally sought John's company for no reason at all except apparent loneliness. _No one_ ever said that in so many words, of course, and Sherlock definitely didn't call it that, but he knew John did. "When's the last time you slept?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

"Sherlock..." John sighed. "Well, drink your tea and get some sleep. We'll see if you feel better in the morning."

"John." Sherlock cleared his throat. "... Stay awhile?" He was interested in deducing his own reflection in his tea rather than looking at John, and so he didn't.

"... Okay." The concern was nearly tangible, but John didn't press it. "You want something to take the edge off? Sleeping aid?"

Sherlock contemplated it. Seriously. But while it was true that he occasionally _did_ take sleeping medication for his sleeplessness, or worse, nightmares, John had always acted as a sort of relaxant in himself. Sherlock thought that simply being in the same place as John, and Mary, surrounded by familiar sights, and people, and smells... maybe it would take the edge off enough without medically inducing unconsciousness.

He shook his head.

"Alright. Let me get my tea and I'll be right back," John said.

True to his word, John stayed by silently. They didn't talk, which Sherlock was content with, but it was enough to have the silence be broken by someone else breathing. Living people breathed. Ghosts didn't.

And what he had said to Moriarty? That was true. He didn't believe in a pre-destined path. He wasn't going to let... a future that Moriarty was showing him stop him. If it was just a dream - a weird one - or if it was something... more real, well. He'd create his own destiny.

"... John?" Sherlock mumbled as he teetered on the edges of sleep, already having finished his tea and allowed John to tuck him back into bed.

"Hm?"

"... I like the name 'Celeste'," he mumbled.

"Celeste?" Kudos, now, that John actually sounded contemplative over the suggestion. "That's... actually pretty, coming from you. Unlike Gertrude."

Sherlock smiled faintly. He wanted to say that _I'd been joking about that one!_, but he couldn't open his eyes, too far gone into sleep again. The blankets were soft and warm and the house was blissfully quiet.

"Where'd you get this one from, anyway? A case?"

"... Jus' sorta came to me," Sherlock mumbled.

"Huh. Remind me to tell Mary that one."

Sherlock intoned a vague agreement that he would.

When he fell asleep this time, he had only good and normal dreams.

* * *

**And now this slightly strange and crazy story has come to a close. Don't know how I ended up writing it, but I did, and it was fun to work through all of it. (To be fair, my ideas for ShSpesh has changed in the meantime xD)**

**Thank you for all of your support, favs, follows, and reviews. I do not own _Sherlock_, as usual, and thank you again for reading!**


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